


Back for Good

by jehanjoly (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Karaoke, M/M, R Ship Week, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:08:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jehanjoly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one knew Combeferre could sing. No one, that is, but Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back for Good

**Author's Note:**

> These are not characters I write very often, so please be kind.

No one knew Combeferre could sing.

No one, that was, but Grantaire.

Grantaire caught him singing once – it was one of those perfect spring mornings when the windows were all open in his flat, and he was sitting in the garden in just a t-shirt and boxers nursing a hangover while Combeferre made coffee in the kitchen. Grantaire’s eyes were closed against the sun, its rays unfiltered by leaves on the trees, but they flew open when he heard a small, brittle tenor coming from the kitchen.

Grantaire went to investigate, and found Combeferre in sweats and a tanktop, singing to himself as he measured out coffee into the coffeemaker. Grantaire leaned against the doorway, taking in the scene, waiting for Combeferre to realize he was there.

The coffee had finished brewing before he did.

“What?” Combeferre said, with his trademark sideways glare.

“I never knew you were a singer,” Grantaire teased, going over to the coffeemaker and pouring himself a cup.

“I was in the church choir as a kid,” Combeferre muttered as he went to the refrigerator to pull out a carton of cream. “And sang a little bit in college. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire said, leaning back against the counter and taking a sip from his mug. “I just never saw you as the musical type.”

Combeferre shrugged. “I guess I am just full of surprises,” he said.

“Are you?” Grantaire asked, putting his coffee cup down on the counter and going to stand in front of Combeferre, lightly brushing his fingers down the center of his chest. “We’ve been together three months and we already have a routine. Who makes the coffee, who does the dishes, who’s on top—”

Combeferre lightly punched Grantaire in the belly. “You can always surprise me with who’s on top.”

“Right, as if you’d tolerate someone else being in charge,” Grantaire said. “I’d like to see that.”

Combeferre just laughed and strode off into the bedroom. “Stage a revolution, R, I’d like to see that sometime,” he said over his shoulder. “It will go down in flames,” he predicted.

“Fuck you, Ferre,” Grantaire said with a scowl.

But he followed him into the bedroom, pulling off his t-shirt as he went, determined to prove his boyfriend wrong.

**

That was the way of their relationship – teasing and punches that were occasionally punctuated by a surprise revelation. It wasn’t a shock that it started that way – with an argument at the Musain that led to a frenzied makeout session in the alleyway out back, which eventually led to a slightly less frenzied first time on the couch at Combeferre’s paper-strewn flat. This wasn’t a relationship with floral arrangements and poetry – they fought constantly, and were cutting and sarcastic with each other.

For a while it worked. Grantaire was one of only a handful of people in the world who could make the terminally serious Combeferre laugh; Combeferre softened Grantaire’s edges, even sometimes getting him to care about something other than where his next drink was coming from. For brief moments, each man would let the other one through the walls he had carefully erected over the course of his life, sharing truths as small as Combeferre’s stint in the church choir and as large as Grantaire’s fear of dying alone.

But it couldn’t last. The walls were too impenetrable, and the battles were just too fierce.

It was Grantaire who broke it off, five months after it all began. It started when Combeferre tripped over one of Grantaire’s paintings – one of many that were scattered all over his flat – which escalated into a discussion over Combeferre’s stubborn insistence that Grantaire needed to go back to school.

“You should do something to better the world!” Combeferre yelled. “Fix our laws, heal the sick – don’t just spend your time throwing paint at a canvas. Get an education, for Christ’s sake.”

Grantaire stopped short. “Are you saying I’m wasting my life?”

Combeferre stood there with his hands on his hips. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

Something went off in Grantaire’s brain just then — it occurred to him then that he was now dating his father.

“Get out,” Grantaire said quietly.

“R, I’m sorry, I—“Combeferre realized immediately what he had done.

“Look, we should have known this from the beginning, that this was a bad idea,” Grantaire said. “You deserve so much better than a loser like me, okay?” He blinked hard, holding back the tears.

“Grantaire, I—“Combeferre was at a loss for words.

“Please,” Grantaire whispered, turning away.

Combeferre swallowed hard — and walked out the door.

**

It was a mystery why the Musain started doing Thursday karaoke nights – maybe the owners wanted to liven up the bar, maybe they wanted to bring in a younger crowd. In his more paranoid moments, Enjolras suspected it was because the owners were nervous about the near-constant presence of Les Amis and wanted to find a way to force the group to find a quieter place to organize and argue. Instead Les Amis would find the quietest corner of the bar, and simply ignore the parade of American Idol wannabes belting out power ballads.

The Thursday night after the breakup Combeferre arrived uncharacteristically late, drank an uncharacteristic number of beers, and remained uncharacteristically silent as the group discussed their next protest. He sat at the fringe of the group, instead his usual position at the center, squinting at the stage to watch the singers.

“Is he okay?” Enjolras hissed in Courfeyrac’s ear. “I can’t have him like this – not when we have so much going on right now.”

“He’s taking the break-up hard,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “Not that you’d ever—”

He was interrupted by Combeferre, who stood up and announced in a slurred voice, “I’m going to go sing.”

“Not now, Combeferre—we have things to do,” Enjolras said.

Feuilly put his hand on Enjolras’s arm. “Let him go,” he said softly. Enjolras sighed and sat back down, shooting a withering look at Grantaire, who sat nearby, stone-faced and remarkably sober.

Combeferre looped his way toward the stage, glanced at the list of songs, and took the microphone as the music kicked in.

The song he chose was a ballad – a silly song by a boy band that Grantaire recognized almost instantly from Combeferre’s iPhone playlist. Combeferre’s musical taste hadn’t changed much since he was teenager, despite Grantaire’s attempts to introduce him to new artists.

Yet the song was perfect for his bright tenor voice, which wavered slightly in the opening verses but found its footing by the time he reached the chorus. As he sang, Combeferre was retreating into himself, eyes closed as he swayed in time with the music.

But when he reached the bridge, he opened his eyes and stared straight at Grantaire as he sang plaintively:

And we’ll be together, this time is forever  
We’ll be fighting and forever we will be  
So complete in our love  
We will never be uncovered again

Grantaire could not meet his gaze. He knew he couldn’t do it – he couldn’t let him back into his life. They were too different, too volatile, too closed off from their emotions.

And yet there was Combeferre, standing tall on stage, pouring out his feelings in song in a way no one, not even Grantaire, had ever seen.

As he finished and walked off stage to hearty applause from the entire bar, Jehan turned to Grantaire. “I didn’t know Combeferre sang,” he whispered to Grantaire.

“I did,” Grantaire said wistfully, thinking of all the things he knew about Combeferre.

And all the things he still wanted to learn.


End file.
